A/N: Again, I must beg your forgiveness for the lateness. AP exams next week, prom the week after that, college decisionsby May 1st,things are getting a little hectic. Anyone who has been through the same hell can sympathize, I'm sure. Anyway, less about my life, more about my wonderful reviewers!
et-spiritus-sancti: I am so glad you are enjoying it, and I must say, the last little scene is a favorite of mine. I'm glad that there is room for a little fluff now. I like it as much as the nextPhantom-obsessed girl. Btw, any particularinspiration for thename, cuz me likey.
Jaini Kenobi: Your wish is my command
m-oquinn; please don't kill me, i am kinda enjoying life right now. I will will make it up to you; there will be love and happiness and puppy dogs and all that soon enough.
MissCleo:I am so glad you noticed, because I try hard not to make Remy a complete Mary Sue, with knowledge of all things and eyes that are sometimes green but look blue except for when they are purple, and all that rot.
Ridel: YAY,I love prizes!
Forensic Photographer711:I won't bore you with moreMary Sue stereotypes. I do want to keep my characters human, so thank you for commenting, it helps me make sure I am on the right track.
Past Dreams and PhantomDragon:I'm glad you found your way to my humble story,so keep reviewing.I am a review addict!
Erik was having the strangest dream. He dreamed that there was a girl, lost, scared, and hunted, running around the opera house, and that he was following her. He dreamed of rescuing her, and of bringing her to his home. He got strange, memory-like flashes of seeing her smile, and hearing her argue with him over the most interesting topics. He even dreamed, this one especially vivid and realistic, that she danced with him, under the stars while the fresh spring breeze lifted golden hair off her shoulders and the moonlight reflected in her eyes. He also got vague images of blood, fire, and a man with a distinctly annoying voice, but pushed those from his mind, trying to hold onto the dreams of the girl.
It was ridiculous, of course, the things a tired mind could think up. The very idea of such preposterous things actually happening was not only remote, but entirely impossible. What kind of girl would be wandering around the Opera Populaire? What kind of girl would allow herself to be cared for by him? Or treat him like another human being? Or bandage his hands, or dance with him, or forgive him for his crimes?
Remy. The name sounded oddly familiar. Now he was naming his dream characters. How long had he been asleep? He felt a the haze of slumber begin to lift, driven away by the sharp reality of waking, and he fought it with what little consciousness he had. Try as he might, he could not keep himself in that dream state forever. Despite his attempts, simply keeping his eyes closed was not enough, and he resigned himself to losing that beautiful fantasy his mind had created for him, filled with the image of a girl named Remy.
Light poured in through his eyes as his dream faded into nothingness. Except, the dream was still there; the girl was still there. He felt a slight weight leaning on his chest, and the soft edges of blond hair brushing against his rib cage. He inclined his head towards her, and saw Remy lying against him, looking for all the world like an angel that had fallen out of heaven and somehow landed next to him.
There were dark circles ringing her eyes, and her clothes looked dirty and ragged, and her hair was tangled and clumped behind her ears; but she was there, and she was beside him, and the warmth of her body spread to his. Surely he must still be dreaming; she was too perfect to be real.
A dull pain that ran through his fingers as he reached to touch her face convinced him that this was indeed truly happening, and with that realization, a flood of memories returned to him. She had returned to him. Remy had left, but she had come back. Part of him wanted desperately to wake her and ask her why, but she looked so peaceful and perfect that he couldn't bear to. What if she had forgotten something, and come back to retrieve it, and only stayed because he was hurt? What if she had wanted to stay with him, but had changed her mind when she saw that he could not even kill Leon for her?
At least when she was asleep, he could imagine that this was how his life actually was; he could pretend that she was his, and that she cared for him as deeply as he cared for her. That was a strange revelation. All the time that Remy was with him before, he could picture Christine, and believe that the ache in his heart was still due to her abandonment. But if he was still in love with Christine, why would Remy's absence cause the hole in his heart to widen? Why would he miss Remy so terribly if it was Christine he wanted?
It was a frightening revelation as well. It proved him utterly wrong about his own heart; he had thought he would die of love for Christine, that once she was gone he would never know joy again. He thought that there was only one perfect person for every other person, that Fate had led him to Christine, that Fate had bound his hands and left him with no choice but to love her and her alone. He had hoped that the same Fate would also lead her to love him, but she hadn't. He had tried to convince himself that Remy was a mere annoyance, that he would be fine when she left, that her presence could do nothing to ease his pain and brighten his darkness. But here he was, warm with happiness because Remy was next to him.
Not that he was entirely comfortable; the pain in his hand was eclipsed only by the numerous cuts and burns on his chest, which were nothing compared to the sharp ache of his thigh were the bullet had sliced through his skin and muscle. He had a pain relieving draught in his cabinet, an old Middle Eastern one he learned of in his reading, but he feared if he should attempt to stand up and walk he would only fall over. Remy could get it, but he did not want to wake her, and spoil the magic of this moment, so he just gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore the pain.
I awoke completely rested when Erik shifted beneath me, and opened my eyes to find him staring questioningly at my face. My first reaction was of course to blush an unbecoming shade of red and avert my gaze, but he said nothing, forcing me to be the first to speak.
I pressed my face into the cloak that covered us both, and mumbled that I hoped he was feeling better, and was there anything I could do for him. Judging from the confused look on his face, he hadn't understood my muffled comment, so I repeated it, my mouth uncovered, wondering if my breath smelled dreadful, or if his expression where the result of some other pain. Much as I hated to see him hurting, I selfishly hoped it was the later, for my pride's sake.
He forced a grim smile, and told me that he was better, but that I might try to find a small purplish bottle, as it contained a very potent pain reliever. Hearing his voice, though it sounded strained and painful, reassured me, and I rose quietly, trying not to jostle him too much in the process. I was aware of his eyes following me as I moved about the room trying to find the basket I had so hastily pushed all the bottles from the cabinet into. I finally located it pushed under the bed, and dug out the purple bottle. He told me where I could find a spoon and a glass of water, and I felt quite accomplished and pleased with myself as he swallowed the nasty, familiar-smelling concoction. He must have given me the same one when I arrived here, and for a moment I reflected on how our situation had been reversed.
I instinctively reached to touch my forehead, where the bruise had faded into naught but a bad memory, and slid my hand down to my cheek, where I could feel the raised bump of my scar. I hoped that it, too, would fade in time, but like sad memories, some things are meant to last forever.
Erik must have noticed the look on my face, for he was quick to ask me if I had been hurt during the struggle. I told him that I was fine, but he still appeared concerned.
"I would worry about myself, if I were you, Erik. Or worry about the nice, fresh corpses on the floor. I think I am the only one unscathed, so you certainly needn't worry about me" I heard my voice take on a prim, parlor tone, the one I used to convince boring people that they really were very amusing, and that I really did want to hear about their second cousin's friend's son's foray into the law business. I hated that insincerity, but didn't have enough energy or will to fight it.
His eyes were still fixed on my face, and I dearly wished that I had the courage to ask him what he was thinking.